


Wardens of Ferelden MC

by etaeternum



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Character, Crimes & Criminals, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Family Secrets, Hacking, Hale is the tits, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Torture, Motorcycle clubs, Motorcycles, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rendon Howe is scum, Slave Trade, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:12:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etaeternum/pseuds/etaeternum
Summary: This will not just be a retelling of Awakening. Moderately inspired by the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. An even smaller bit by Sons of Anarchy. A motorcycle club of vigilantes, the Wardens are rebuilding their club to stop the resurgence of their rivals, the Darkspawn. Mysteriously reclusive, the president of the Wardens- The Queen, has charged her vice president, Nathaniel Howe with responsibility for missions. Hale (Hailey), a hacker with a troubled past, investigates the deceased Mayor Rendon Howe's association with the history of her parents. The secrets the hacker reveals of Rendon Howe's criminal activity leads her to the Wardens.





	1. Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea and I'm running with it. (Hale is my Lisbeth.) Please let me know what you think. Also- I'm not a hacker. I don't know how to hack. Some of this I'm making up and some of it I looked up online. I'm probably not going to list makes/ models for the bikes... but I have them in mind if you want to know! ^.^
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Comments are fuel for fanfiction.
> 
>   
> Art by [mrgabel](mrgabel.tumblr.com)

“The Darkpawn have been ambushing trucks at the gas station on the highway near the Woods,” Nate informed his counterparts as he pulled his hair back in a ponytail. “Someone in the capital asked us to check it out. A favor for a favor.” He glanced from where he sat on his bike to Anders on the machine next to him. With the largest port on the northern shore, the Arling of Amaranthine remained Denerim’s largest supplier of foreign goods even after the damage the region six months prior; the recovering capital suffered when Amaranthine’s trade routes were hindered.

Anders laughed, “sure. _Favors_ for the capital in Dalish territory. The Queen’s getting paid for this one, right?” He adjusted his bandana and waved his hand over the engine. The analog lights flashed as he turned on the electrical system with magic.

“Shut it, you nug humpers,” Oghren grumbled. The bags under the dwarf’s eyes suggested sleep deprivation, matching his languid movements as he climbed onto his trike. “If we hurry up and get this over with, the sooner we’ll get back. I picked up a single-malt last time we were in the city and it’s calling my name.”

“I’ve got third,” Siggy hollered, staking her claim to the position of riders before they got on the road. She hopped on her small bike, lowered to meet her proportions without requiring three wheels. Transferred to the Wardens from the Legion, Sirgun, or Siggy as she preferred, held her own among the group of men. “Last time I was the sweeper, Oghren was lazy on the throttle. Had to keep slowing down or I’d have passed him. Were you getting distracted there, buddy?”

Displeased and incoherent muttering was Oghren’s only reply to the female dwarf. Nate, or Nathaniel by birth, rolled his eyes and gave a questioning thumbs up to the rest of the group. The others mirrored his gesture, signaling their readiness to ride. Buttons pressed, Nate’s first followed by the others. Engines roared in succession. Silence transformed to waves of grumbling. Throttles turned, warming cool bikes, calling to each other in preparation for the ride; revving in eagerness like wild animals waiting to be freed from their binds.

Nate’s tattooed arm lifted in the air, motioning for the band of Warden’s to move. Boots met shifters, and the unified clink of bikes shifting into first gear rang through the grounds of the Keep. Nate’s slow twist of his throttle let him lead the procession to the open road. The president of their MC, Cece, or the Queen as most called her, stayed behind; her preferred method of delegating small jobs applied. _But Darkspawn aren’t small jobs._ Allowing the confused thought to pass, Nate focused on the road.

The group’s bikes accelerated, growling at the highway as they turned. Shifting up in quick motions, enjoying the freedom of the open road while holding formation. The riders staggered, occupying space on asphalt as a pack. Adorned with jackets and vests marked with the griffon, most of Ferelden recognized the symbol of the Wardens and few willed to stand in the way of the vigilantes. Excluding the Darkspawn: a rival gang of nonhuman cultists who controlled the roads underground. They came to the surface to hoard supplies and when ordered by one of their leaders. The recent increase in the criminals above ground suggested a resurgence of the gang.

Claiming ownership of the road, vibrating engines of the Wardens’ wheeled machines barrelled down the deserted highway through the flat plains toward the Wending Woods. Decayed suburbs in various stages of rebuilding outside the city of Amaranthine tapered to farmland; metropolitan high rises were visible from the outer edges of the city. Wind howled warning of speed, and Nate heard the muffled sound of Oghren’s music played from his trike. An hours ride east brought them to the station, marking the beginning of the Pilgrim’s Path: a long stretch of road that wove through forested foothills.

Thieves fled the area as the first three riders’ slowed, rolling into the station. Bikes stopped, kick stands lowered, and engines turned off. The Wardens dismounted. With slow steps Nate took in the sight before them, Anders and Siggy at his sides. Thick smoke clouded the area from withering flames on the scorched underside of box trucks, overturned in the parking lot; the area was strewn with shattered glass, void of any remaining employees or Darkspawn; the dying flames and stillness suggested the initial ambush occurred hours ago.

Oghren’s arrival interrupted the devastating scenery. He blared Viking metal and his trike backfired, popping from the quick release of gas causing the exhaust’s intake of air. The dwarf stopped his vehicle near the others, killed the engine and grumbled.

Anders gave an abrupt laugh. Turning his head from the destruction with an amused grin. “Excuse you.”

The dwarf chuckled, walking to rest of the group and waving his hand behind his rear as if the sound from his trike had been his own. Guffaws erupted, Anders bellowed at Oghren’s display, and the dwarf took it as an initiative to join. Members of Cece’s initiative to rebuild the club since the last Darkspawn incident, none had much time to become well-acquainted aside from teasing banter and humor.

Nate’s hand lifted, ushering the noise to cease while shushing. Immature snickering replaced bellows, as the group explored the area. Kicking debris with his motorcycle boot, Nate scanned his senses for the presence of Darkspawn. Superstitious rituals of both MCs required a joining of blood, passed down by club predecessors. The Warden ability to detect Darkspawn and reverse suggested somewhere in their history the bloodlines crossed. Fuddled by time and secrets, Nate’s questions of the Wardens’ history met silence when he inquired at his initiation.

He grabbed a fire extinguisher from the pole near the gas pumps and walked toward the trucks, boots crunching on glass with each step. He put out the feeble smolder of plastic and rubber. The powdery chemicals smothered the low-heat of red flames with a few puffs.

“Well,” Siggy voiced between the bursts of the fire extinguisher. She peered into the half-empty cargo load of the truck. “It looks like the Darkspawn are gone.”

“So it seems,” Anders sing-song tone jovially assessed as he gazed into the trucks from a distance. He and Oghren stayed removed from the scene, neither interested in getting their hands dirty. “But why would Darkspawn ambush trucks and leave the cargo? What’s missing is just what those looters got away with.”

“This wasn’t Darkspawn,” Nate sighed, turning to Anders. _Damn it, Cece. You knew it._ He deducted her reason for not joining them, an answer to his previous confusion. “A fugitive like you knows an act of rebellion when you see one, don’t you Andy?”

“Oh ho,” Anders chuckled with a playful sneer and Nate, “fuck you, Nate. You know I hate it when people call me Andy.”

Siggy and Oghren shook their heads, grinning at the exchange. It was out-of-character for the vice-president of the club to instigate clubmates. The dwarves suspected his goal of proving something.

“Case in point.” Smirking, Nate provoked, “remind me how the Templars always find you. .  . Andy.” The Chantry operation of Templars policed magic wielders across Thedas; Anders was notorious for the numerous Templar warrants for his arrest after multiple escapes from the institution.

Anders’ snickered, his hand flexed, fingers extending. Fire ignited in his palm; a jocular threat from one clubmate to another. “They find me really fucking angry. And call me Andy again and I’ll singe that ridiculous patch of hair off your face.”

“There,” Nate pointed to the powder coating the truck and glanced at Anders’ magical fire. “A pissed off mage. That’s who did this.” His free hand touched the hair and stubble under his bottom lip.

Anders removed the magical charge from his hand. Puzzled, his brow cocked. “I’m not pissed. I thought we were just having fun!” Oghren struggled to quell his giggles.

“Oh!” Siggy exclaimed in agreement with Nate. “You’re right! There’s no catalyst!”

Nodding to Siggy, Nate continued his explanation as he walked around the wreckage, making final blasts of the chemical mixture to quench the few remaining embers. “This was aimed and the fire died soon after it started. Otherwise, we’d probably arrived to the aftermath of a massive explosion.”

“All right,” Oghren’s scratchy voice sounded with impatience. Shaking his head, he squinted at Siggy and Nate. “Not all of us have recon experience. What’s this shite mean?”

Nate and Siggy’s military experience on reconnaissance teams gave them an advantage in information gathering.

“It means this was a warning,” Ander’s chimed in, finally reaching the conclusion Siggy and Nate had already surmised.“We’re on Dalish territory. They’ve done this before.”

A rattling from the convenience store of the gas station disrupted the Wardens’ conversation. Glass broke, the door shattering from the inside; four more raiders emerged from inside. Arm loads of items dropped to the ground when the thieves spotted the group standing near the trucks.

“You didn’t see anything here.” A looter hollered from the doorway; his sidekicks crossed their arms to appear intimidating. Young hoodlums, hungry scavengers desperate for food traveled in large gangs. In the last uprising of the Darkspawn, cases of delinquency skyrocketed.; young adults heavily loaded with artillery and willing to resort to violence and murder to meet their needs. The Wardens knew it was reckless to underestimate the threat the delinquents could pose.

“Leave now and we won’t have to hurt you,” another miscreant called, this one a woman. She flashed a gun in her waistband and signaled to other criminals still in the store.

“I don’t think they know we’re Wardens,” Siggy glanced up to Nate, brows furrowing, readying her hands to pull her 9 mm pistols from their shoulder holsters as a warning to the thieves.

Black leather straps looped Nate’s belt and another buckled around his thigh. The color of his holster matched the revolver it held and blended into the dark fabric of his jeans. A sheath next to his gun secured his knife. His hand rose to the grip of his gun and fingers popped open the buttons.

Sideways looks passed between the scavengers, debating to run or fight through silent communication. Before they could reach a consensus, one of the hoodlums reached for a weapon. A small gun pulled quickly from the waist of his jeans.

Walking to join Siggy and Nate, Anders chuckled to his clubmates, extending his hands to summon magic from the omnipresent and transcendental realm of the Fade. “This’ll be fun.”

Oghren sighed, begrudging his potential obligation to grab his weapon, a compact semi-automatic rifle, from where it was stowed in his trike. He made a few lazy steps toward the vehicle, but a shot sounded from behind him.

“No! Damn it!” The sidekick fell to the ground, writhing in pain, blood oozing from his leg. His hands hovered over the entry site, shocked, uneager to touch the wound but desperate for relief from the pain. Screaming, he looked at his friends for support. With shrugs the other hoodlums bolted, leaving the wounded one behind.

Nate snorted while shaking his head, he glanced to Anders as he pointed away from the gas station. “We’re going to travel out up this trail to check for other damage. Will you go heal that kid? And you stay with Anders.” His last question was directed at Oghren.

“Of course, Sarg!” Grinning, Anders gave Nate a mock salute and sauntered toward the looter still gasping in pain.

Nate rolled his eyes. Deliberate steps took him back toward his bike, followed by Siggy. Bikes turned on, shifted into gear, the two followed the Pilgrim’s Path from the gas station further into the Wending Woods.

In his wait for Anders to finish healing the miscreant, Oghren climbed up on his trike. His upper body leaned against the backrest and he belched. Loud and unapologetic, the sound vibrated through the air.

“You know that’s disgusting right?” The judgment in Anders’ tone was masked by his pleasant lilt. “Are dwarven women into that sort of thing?”

The pair had not known each other long. What knowledge they had of each other prior to joining was based solely on reputation, the rest built on assumptions.

“Not really,” Oghren gave half a chuckle then stopped, glancing up as if his answer to Anders’ question brought some deeper realization. After a moment of pondering, he jeered. “Are mage ladies into lanky beanpoles?”

“Yes, actually,” Anders smile broadened as he stood up. The miscreant fainted while Nate healed him, but he would recover soon and his friends would return for their stolen goods. “And I’ve been _into_ a lot of mage ladies in my day so I should know.” He winked and tilted his head before walking to his bike next to Oghren’s.

“Oh!” Oghren crowed, slapping his knee as he sat back up. “Good one!” Turning the key to his ignition and starting up his bike, he hummed in thought. Loud enough to carry over the sound of the engine, he made an offer. “I’ll share my whiskey when we get back to the Keep if you teach me some of your tricks, sparkle-fingers.”

“Let’s drink!” Anders turned on his motorcycle, the guttural rumble drowning out his answer. He cried out, “to lost causes!”

“What?!” Oghren yelled over the roaring engines.

The mage’s finger pointed to his motorcycle then to his ear as he shook his head, suggesting that he couldn’t hear. Displeased, Oghren’s eyes narrowed, distrusting Anders sincerity. But the moment passed; Oghren gave Anders a thumbs up and Anders reciprocated. They shifted into first and headed the direction of the other Wardens.

Motorcycles lent to turns, handling curves with technique; starting points perfected for space and speed, footpegs dragged on asphalt. Deserted trucks parked on the shoulders, empty, looted. Outlaws and thieves scurried from sites when they heard bikes coming. Anders and Oghren caught up to Siggy and Nate. The group rode the Path, following it up the foothills surveying damage and searching for the source.

Elven ruins littered the countryside. The native peoples’ architecture abandoned long since the displacement of tribes hundreds of years ago. Limited of space and unwilling to conform for their oppressors, the elves stayed on reservations. Ancient histories upheld in customs none willed to break.

The Path ran alongside a crumbling piece of architecture tucked within the rocky terrain. With a signal to the other riders, they parked their bikes on the shoulder to examine the ruins for activity. Nate led, quiet steps up the driveway dividing trees came upon the flat ground of the old stone altar. The area had been adapted: wood cabins built, a van or motorcycle parked next to each one. Despite the vehicles, the area seemed unoccupied.

The group had but a moment to view the area when a harsh voice barked. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Whoa there,” Anders mumbled, peering up to an earthy ledge over them. Boots turned to long, leather-clad legs and curves continued to a corseted bust. A beautiful but cantankerous blonde elven woman stood glaring at them. Form fitting clothes flattered her figure but the high neck of her top maintained some modesty.

“You disgust me,” the woman snarled down to them. “There's nothing left for you to steal so leave!” The magical energy swirling around her hands revealed the culprit of the truck fires.

“That's our mage,” Siggy deducted, keeping her voice low so as not to be heard by the angry woman.

Monitoring the elven woman's movement, ready to reach for his gun, Nate informed her of their intent. “We’re not here to steal. We were hired to look into the issues with trucks getting through the Path.”

She continued to nag, her voice grating with misplaced resentment. “None of your fucking trucks are getting through here anymore. I'm done with you shems destroying my tribe.”

“Look, lady.” Interrupting her rant, Oghren grumbled. “We didn't do anything to you or any other Dalish people. We came up here to tell you to stop lighting up cargo trucks.”

“How dare you!” Her voice rose, she summoned tree roots from the earth where she stood. The roots entwined to give her a pathway down to the Wardens.

“If you overlook her crabbiness, that's actually pretty cool.” Genuinely impressed by the elven magic, Anders murmured to no one in particular.

The woman came to stand in front of them, her hands planted on her hips. Scratched leather on the left toe of her boot suggested she rode. Her glare passed from Anders and Nate who returned her glare with amused disinterest. “You human idiots come here and destroy our land, kidnap my sister, then steal from us and you think you can just dismiss me?”

“Well, he dismissed you.” Anders pointed to Oghren, cautiously smirking. “And he's not human, and neither is she.” He gestured toward Siggy who stood with her arms crossed. “Who do we have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Your sister was kidnapped?” Nate's question interrupted Anders’. In addition to crimes of petty theft and violence, the Darkspawn’s behavior worsened to grand larceny and murder when their numbers grew. Some even rumored the monsters kidnapped women for procreation and pleasure. Nate’s concerns overrode Anders'.

“Vel. And you heard me!” The elf barked at Nate.

“Darkspawn,” Nate announced in a low grumble to his clubmates. “We need to tell the Queen.” He spoke the woman directly, his tone even with the tiniest thread of compassion. “I’m sorry about your family. Blame the Darkspawn and stop damaging trucks that drive through.”

Dumbfounded, the woman stared as the group walked back down the driveway to their bikes. One at a time, they turned around on the Path and rode back the direction they came. Vel recognized the Warden patches.

* * *

 

Hale laid over her cafe racer. A sleek design, perfect for an elf, her knees hugged the grips on the sides of the tank. Swerving, she picked up gears as the traffic she navigated became more predictable. Two fingers rested on the front brake lever, hand twisting the throttle with gentle pressure. The other hand touched the clutch, prepared to shift down if needed or up if opportunity allowed.

Most would call weaving through cars on a motorcycle in Amaranthine traffic a death wish. Maybe it was. Earbuds snug in her pointed ears blared punk rock, drowning out the sound of vehicles honking when she scared them. Her helmet masked her face. Lane splitting allowed her to reach her destination ahead of schedule.

She took an off ramp from the highway, slowing on the one-way road to a parking garage under a condominium. She parked, removed her helmet and pulled her hoodie over her head, hiding the long, dark auburn hair shaved on one side and her face decorated with a tattoo and piercings. Combat boots stepped through the empty parking garage to the stairwell, free from cameras.

She used a key card, copied from another resident she followed into a grocery store from the condo a few days prior. A purse left in a shopping cart while the resident browsed frozen foods, Hale plucked the wallet from inside as she walked by. Grabbing the card and copying the RFID with a portable device plugged into her phone. It took less than a second and she put the wallet back undetected. The shopper was still searching for microwavable dinners when she walked away.

The copy she made opened the door to the stairs. Taking two steps at a time, she found the floor she needed. _9th. Room 928. Rendon Howe. Good riddance, you sick fuck._ The man whose condo she was breaking into died 8 months prior.

The hall was empty and Howe's unoccupied condo was easy to find. Hale pulled her pick from her hair and took a final glance down both sides of the hallway. Satisfied with the emptiness, she picked the lock. An alarm sounded, a few quick beeps but she found the control panel and pressed in the numbers she knew would work. Acquired from a call she made to the alarm system company, pretending to be Howe's only daughter, answering the needed security questions- the answers to which she found online- they gave her the code without hesitation. Hale stopped the alarm after five seconds, knowing she had 30 seconds before the company would be notified.

She scanned the condo. Simple design, masculine decoration. This was the deceased mayor of Amaranthine’s private lodging to take back prostitutes and manage meetings with shady business partners. Hale learned this by researching Howe's property, under all pseudonyms, including one of his long since departed wife, Eliane Bryland.

Pacing through the condo, she found what she came for. His computer. In his living room, the dining area had been turned into an office. A desk sat against the wall, a simple monitor on the desktop and a tower on the floor. Hale’s eyes wandered the room for his router. Near the television, on top of his cable box; she picked up the router to check the WiFi password, assuming Howe didn’t change it. _Not likely. Doubt he even knew how._

Her smartphone scanned for wireless networks. He left his with the name of the Internet provider and the signal was strong. Selected, she typed in the case-sensitive assortment of letters and numbers listed as the password on his router. _Connecting… connected._

_Easy._ She walked to the computer and turned it on. The machine was old, the software outdated; it was slow to start. While she waited, she checked the IP address from her jailbroken cell and entered the hacking program she installed. The computer turned on, monitor lit up, a picture of the mayor and his son in the background. Thomas, dead like his father and the only family member the mayor used for publicity stunts. Hale made an irritated scoff.

She typed a code into her phone and added the IP address. Hacking computers was like picking locks. All about angles and perspectives. Inserted combinations of letters, clicks of keystrokes. And sometimes it took a few tries. But the conclusion, the rewarding hum of code scrolling when she succeeded; like her pick finding the right pressure for the final tumbler pin to discover what waited on the other side of an unlocked door.

A few more lines of code entered,  and she was in. She overrode his password from her mobile device; green code scrolled against black as she gained entry. The father and son picture disappeared, replaced with an image of naked women: an elf and a human groping each other. She sneered at the screen and plugged a portable hard drive into a USB port.

Space was a non-issue. She dragged all of his files onto the drive, perusing his computer as the files transferred. Internet history composed of his email provider, political and financial news, escorts services, erectile dysfunction medication, and torture porn. _Disgusting._

Files completed their transfer. Eager to leave the condo, she grabbed the drive and put it in her pocket, shut off the computer and reset the alarm. The beeps counted down her time limit to leave. The door clicked shut behind her and she took large strides back down the hall to the stairwell. Hoodie came down and her helmet came on, a reflective bubble visor covered the Dalish tattoo.

The motorbike whirred from the garage, following the one lane road to another, then merging onto the freeway. She raced to her apartment on the other side of the city and parked in a neighboring parking garage on the same floor as the breezeway that connected the two constructs. Certain that the information about Howe would give her answers about her parents fueled her speed. Unclear of the circumstances, Hale knew only that her mother’s disability of mental impairment and her father’s death had to do with an elven trafficking project she traced back to Howe. A hacker and researcher, Hale’s income came from jobs of digging up hidden information for people. But this work was personal.

Entering her apartment, she pulled off her helmet; it landed on her desk with a soft thud. Fluid movements she’d done a million times, the next steps followed. She kicked her boots off, balancing with a hand on the wall, revealing her socks pulled over her skinny jeans. Posters of punk and metal bands scattered with eccentric art on the walls decorating her cozy studio. A mattress lay on the floor not far from the desk near the main wall. It supported two screens, an external hard drive, and a large pc tower lay beneath. She pushed away the large rolling chair in front of her desk and brushed the button to turn on the tower. She had no television, and her kitchen was bare except for a microwave. The computer started, purring as the monitor woke up. Freeing her small frame from confines of her hoodie, she pulled it off- revealing naturally tan skin, half sleeves of tattoos and other ink sneaking out of her tank top and traveling up her neck. Lighting a cigarette as she walked to the kitchen, she tossed popcorn in the microwave before returning to her desk. The background image of her motorcycle illuminated the screen after she entered her password, holding her cigarette in her lips while she typed.

The task at hand, research Howe's involvement in the slave trade. She browsed through folders, searched his files for records, excel sheets documenting money in and money out. Exploring anything of interest to gather information on the crook. She found what she was looking for first:

Drugs. To sedate elves to expedite trafficking out of Denerim and Amaranthine.

_Mother fucker. This is it._ She tapped the ash from her smoke in the ashtray on her desk and made a mental note to research the sedative Anorium.

And the old base of Rendon’s illegal operations: Vigil's Keep.

_Wonder if the Warden's know._ Though she never met the Wardens, she had researched them. The group of vigilantes made their return after the defeat of the Darkspawn’s previous leader, the Dragon. She made a note to research the Wardens further to find more than their first names and pictures.

The microwave beeped and a few pops followed the signal. She snuffed the cigarette, got up and grabbed the bag of popped kernels. After dumping salt into the paper package, she sat in her desk chair. Legs crossed, the bag in her lap, she continued searching Rendon's secrets.

His eldest son. Nathaniel Howe. _Didn’t know he had another son._ In her previous research of Rendon, she found record of one son and one daughter.

She found pictures of a pale rich kid with dark hair through different stages of life. The last picture: an adult man in a Marcher military uniform. She zoomed in to see his face. Long hair pulled back, a distinct aquiline nose. _That’s Nate from the new Wardens._

_What's this?_ An article: Mayor’s wife, Eliane Howe, dies at the hands of thugs in armed robbery. In the same folder, contracts for the death of Eliane…the entire Cousland family…and Nathaniel. _Cold blooded wanker. All dead except this Caoilainn chick and Nate_ . _Why would he want them dead?_ She added this to her items to research later.

Hale browsed further. Money records, embezzlement, siphoning funds from Loghain Mac Tir’s investments in Denerim. _That's no surprise._ The colluding between the two politicians became widely known prior to their deaths. But this record suggested Loghain may not have known of his missing funds.

_But this…_ she opened another record of money exchanges from Vigil’s Keep to a large urban development firm. The leader, a scientist and entrepreneur, the Architect.


	2. Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wardens are pressured by the Chantry. The MC celebrates a new Warden's initiation at the Crown and Lion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Alcohol references/ consumption

The Keep: once Nate’s childhood home, previously owned by the Mayor Rendon Howe, and now by Cece for the rebuilding of the Warden club after the last base in Southern Ferelden was destroyed. A stronghold built on old farmland, buildings converted to garages, metal doors opened to warehouses with high ceilings. Walls lined with steel cabinets and drawers held tools to work on the lines of bikes stored in the covered space. Makes and models of cruisers in different shapes, sizes and colors lined the warehouses; some owned by Wardens, others by residents of various parts of Amaranthine.

The club vice-president, Nate, returned to the Keep and parked his bike along with the rest of the small team. Motorcycles of other Wardens, recent recruits still early in phases of joining the club remained unused. The group turned their engines off and headed into another building. Solid brick walls, double doors opened to a common area. Framed photographs of motorcycles and notable Wardens lined the hallways on either side of the common room. A stairway led to upstairs rooms, including the president’s office, bathrooms, and bedrooms for the Wardens. A separate building held more Warden quarters, though currently unoccupied in the clubs state of rebuilding.

They rested after their ride, returning late, Nate reported to Cece and she advised waiting to determine a plan until the next morning. Other obligations kept her busy: letters from Denerim, politicians and special interest groups- concerned about their stock in the Amaranthine products and purchases- asking the Wardens for assistance under-the-table.

After meeting with Cece, Nate went to his room. Simple, well-kept, a queen-sized bed and a dresser took up most of the room. The same place he slept in through his childhood, changed over time to match his interests and age. The only room with a private bathroom besides the Queen’s, Nate used the standing shower before drying off and going to bed. Tired after the day's events, he found sleep quickly.

“Cece!” A voice hollered from outside, followed by a loud bang on the double doors of the main building the next morning.

The noise from downstairs woke Nathaniel. Attempts to go back to sleep failed as the noise continued. Groggy, he sat up, rising from his bed to grab a shirt from his dresser and a pair of jeans off the floor. Through his sleepy stupor, he pulled the clothes on over his lean frame, only to hear another round of beating on the door.

“Cece! I know you’re there. And I know you’re housing at least one unregistered mage.”

 _Agent Carroll._ Nate shook his head, grumbling as he stepped out of his room to investigate the pesky Templar. He made it a few steps down the stairs into the common room before he heard Cece harping at the agent.

“He’s a Warden now,” Cece snapped, matching his raised tone with her own. “That’s our deal. You leave them alone once they’re inducted.”

“The Captain wants me to tell you that the deal only works if you keep up your end of it.” Nate reached the bottom of the stairs, seeing the Queen’s arms crossed as she stared at the taller Templar. His eyes kept traveling over her shoulder into the common room. “The Darkspawn problem is almost as bad as it was before and now you’re assaulting civilians.”

“We healed him!” Anders yelled from the upper floor without showing his face.

The political power of the Chantry entitled them to mandate mage rights within the country. Even with advancements in science, research provided unclear answers for the sources of mages’ abilities- aside from some genetic component. Worse, there was no controllable explanation for the cause of some mages' loss of control of their powers. Parliament continued to vote, even after extensive and heated debates, in favor of continuing to give the Chantry’s Templar division power over the wielders of magic.

Cece chuckled internally at Anders declaration before she squinted at the Agent. Arms still crossed, she lifted her chin. The Templar shifted on his feet as the club president stared at him in intimidating silence. Voice low, steady, she spoke, “we’re working on the Darkspawn problem, Carroll. Don’t worry, your lyrium shipments from Orzammar will be fine.” The successful eradication of the Darkspawn promoted trade, including the flow of lyrium supply, through the Northern Ferelden regions and promoted a healthy economy for the rest of the country.

“Work harder or your club’s going to be shut down,” he retorted, his finger pointing into the clubhouse as he spoke. “You’re only permitted to gather because you seem to be the only people who can stop them. You have no power beyond that.”

“I said we’re working on it,” Cece reminded. Her frown deepened and the grinding of her jaw made her temples twitch. “It would be a shame if someone brought up the Chantry’s off-the-record involvement in the lyrium trade at the next parliament meeting. Maybe you should remind your captain.”

Agent Carroll shook his head and gave a frustrated scoff, disregarding her last statement. “You don’t own the roads, Cece.”

Cece’s head turned towards the stairway,  “Nate, get me Lord Guerrin on the phone!”

The woman’s bull-headedness always impressed Nate, having known her since she was a child. She was like a little sister to Nate; a stubborn, impatient, and tenacious little sister. Nate reached into his pocket to grab his cell phone to support her threat to the Templar agent. But the tension released with Cece’s last statement; she won the argument.

“Fine!” Agent Carroll yelled in exasperation, arms rising in the air as he walked to his car. As he drove away, Nate, Anders, Oghren and Siggy joined Cece in the doorway.

“He’s right, though,” Siggy chirped, her hands on her hips. She looked up to her Warden counterparts. “We need to do more about the Darkspawn. They’re getting out of hand.”

The sound of a bike approaching halted their conversation. As it neared, an older gentleman emerged from an open garage. Pants stained with blotches of oil, hands dirty from working on bikes, he called to the Queen. “Who’s this? I don’t have any drop offs scheduled.”

“I don’t know, Varel,” she voiced back, walking toward the space between the main clubhouse and the garage. She left the other Wardens by the main door.

The Warden clubhouse also operated as a motorcycle mechanic's shop. Varel, not a Warden himself but a native to the Keep, he directed prospects’ work on bikes as part of their induction and other maintenance of the Keep.  
“That bike looks familiar,” Nate murmured to his clubmates, recognizing the custom gold leaves painted on the green tank from their venture on the Path the day prior.

The volatile woman from their meeting yesterday parked her bike in front of the clubhouse. The group of Wardens and the mechanic Varel studied her as she walked to Cece.

 _This’ll be good._ The amusing thought passed through Nate’s mind. Cece’s tolerance with people, in general, was already slim; for those who were obnoxiously aggressive, it was non-existent.

“You’re the Queen?” Vel asked, walking across the parking lot toward the president of the MC.

“I am,” Cece watched with a critical stare; she sensed her Wardens walking behind her. “You must be the apostate blowing up trucks on the Path.”

Apostate, an old term used to describe mages free from the Chantry, now considered politically incorrect and ill-suited. Nate knew Cece’s views towards mage rights were liberal, but she still used the word. Both of them born to wealthy families, outdated vernacular dulled the poshness of her accent.

“Yes,” Vel answered, her nose twitched in annoyance. “I need your help.”

“Well, that’s an interesting turn.” Anders snickered to Oghren as they walked to Cece. “She needs our help now!” His voice remained low, but the rest of the group, including Vel, heard him.

“Your right-hand said Darkspawn likely abducted my sister,” Vel explained. Straining to remain calm, to keep her voice steady, she softened her expression with effort. “I want to get her back and I know you’re the only ones who can help. I want to become a Warden.”

Head tilted, thinking, Cece’s eyes traveled from Vel to the sky. She pursed her lips, cheeks tight in a look of displeasure. “I’ll need to think about it. You can apply with Gary to be a prospect in the meantime.” Another native to the Keep and also not a Warden, Garavel, or Gary as most called him, was in charge of applicants to the club and managing security of the grounds.

“Please,” Vel’s brows lifted in a meager plea. It was apparent the woman rarely begged. “I have nothing left. I need to save her.”

Cece’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the mage. The other member’s of the club waited quietly, breath held, curious what the Queen would rule on this new addition. _We could use another mage,_ Nate thought to himself, hoping Cece considered this facet.

“All right.” The Queen shrugged, her lips pulling to an amused frown. “You’ll live here. Go back and get your things. You’ll be initiated tomorrow.” The elven mage nodded in reply, and Cece quickly turned on her heels to go back to her office upstairs. On her way up the stairway, she yelled, “someone find her a room!”

Anders jumped on the opportunity to show the new potential member her way to a spare room while attempting to make small talk with the mage about her use of magic.

* * *

 

“Bourbon. On the rocks.” Nate ordered a drink from the bartender at the Crown and Lion. “No, wait. Did you get that mezcal in from Antiva?”

“Just got it in a few days ago. Special ordered for you, Nate,” the bartender informed before fixing Nate’s drink and passing it to him.

Though the group was new as permanent regulars of the area, they had quickly made their presence known in Amaranthine, and in this pub in particular. Nate’s own return to Amaranthine occurred a few months prior. Even though he was a born local to the city, most didn’t recognize him. He was grateful, considering the political corruption with which his father was associated prior this death. Rendon’s death, Nate came to discover through a private informant, occurred at the hands of Cece. It’s what brought him home from the Marches.

But this particular night at the Crown and Lion, the Wardens celebrated Vel’s induction to the club. Having slept off the effects of the initiation ceremony from the day prior, the elven woman’s mood did not improve. Bitter, reticent, Vel sat uncomfortably among her new clubmates. The Wardens, in addition to their prospects, occupied a few tables in the bar, ordering drinks all around. Cece stayed at the Keep.

Drink in hand, Nate took a step to walk to his table. But as he did, a unique patron entered the pub and neared the bar. An elven woman, taller than most. She wore tight black jeans and a loose t-shirt that said ‘Fuck the Chantry.’ The A was an anarchy symbol: the text just visible from under her leather jacket. Intricate details of a tattoo spread across her face. _She’s Dalish._ But tan, dark make-up shadowed her eyes and lips, smudged from what looked like a night of festivities. A metal ring circled the tail of one eyebrow; her lower lip was pierced twice and she had a hoop through the cartilage between her nostrils. Head shaved on one side, the rest cascaded to long, dark red messy tresses. The ends were damp as if she had been sweating. She was attractive in a rough and tumble sort of way. The woman appeared to be significantly younger than him.

Few rarely guessed Nate's age correctly, always assuming him younger. His life in the Marches prevented circumstances for dating, but on the rare occasion he took a partner, she was younger.

The woman seemed oblivious to his eyes on her as she ordered her drink and sat down at a booth. A few other patrons of a similar age and bearing entered after her. Some sat with her and others ordered more drinks at the bar.

“Nate!” A familiar voice called from his table, followed by the sound of snapping fingers. Anders waved his arms to Nate who stood just a step away from the bar. “Hello! Did you hear me?”

“What?” Nate asked, shaking his head as he resumed his short walk to the Warden’s table and sat down. “Say that again.”

“When will we start looking for Vel’s sister?” Anders restated his question. The new recruit sat to Anders’ right. “The lady needs to know since that _is_ why she joined and all.” Vel rolled her eyes, annoyed by Anders effort at chivalry.

“I,” Nate’s gaze wandered back to the young woman a few times before he focused on replying to Anders. She smiled to her friends.  “I don’t know. Tomorrow, I’d imagine, now that Vel is one of us. Milady.” He gave a courteous nod to Vel with his last statement.

“Would you both knock it off with this gentlemanly crap?” Vel barked at the two of them. She took a large gulp from a glass of red wine, then started a labored conversation with Siggy about the differences of their races' cultures.

Anders shook his head, then shrugged at Nate, confused and uninterested in seeking clarification with Vel about the intent of his politeness. He found a conversation with Oghren about their drinks. All engaged in dialogue with one another, including the prospects who were invited to join, Nate’s attention wandered back to the elven woman across the bar.

She had a helmet resting beside her seat in the booth. _Three-fourths and a bubble visor. She rides a cafe racer, no doubt._ Her leather jacket was taken off; the ends of tattoos on her arms and neck crept out from under the fabric.

“Nate!” The rough sound of Oghren's voice called the vice-president from his intrigue with the unnamed woman. The dwarf sat to his right and patted Nate hard on the back. “Drink your damn drink or sod off! We're celebrating.”

With an annoyed inhale, Nate’s attention came to the table again. He took a generous sip of mezcal and quipped, “since when do you need the excuse of celebrating to drink, Oghren?”

Oghren’s eyes narrowed at Nate as if momentarily offended until he chuckled. “I don’t! But celebrating gives me an excuse to drink more.” Nate rolled his eyes and snorted before taking another drink. “The whole quiet and stoic thing must get you a lot of action, huh?” The dwarf’s question resonated genuine curiosity.

Nate’s eyes glanced to the red-haired elven woman. She was laughing with her comrades, hand gestures indicated they were retelling stories likely from the event from which they came. “It might. Are you an admirer, Oghren?”

Mid-drink, the dwarf choked on his beer and coughed. “What? No!” With an uncomfortable laugh, he wiped droplets of ale from his beard. “I like you, Nate. But not like that.”

“Good,” Nate snickered. “I don’t have to worry about drinking too much tonight.”

Again his gaze moved to the woman, but now she was looking back. An intense stare, focused, sharp, and provoking. Tanned skin and high cheekbones, her pointed ears complimented her angled features. Nate’s brows wrinkled, furrowing for a moment as he made eye contact with her. His confused fascination had but a moment to linger. She called a server to her table; as she spoke, she pointed toward Nate and paid cash.

Instigated by the mild buzz from his now finished drink, Nate’s heartbeat quickened as he watched the server walk to the bar and put in the order. The bartender handed back a bottled drink which the server brought near Nate’s table. To Damia: a Warden prospect at the end of Nate’s table. The recipient of the drink followed the server’s finger pointing to the tattooed woman across the bar. She winked in reply.

Nate snorted, entertained with his misguided eagerness. Defeated, he rose and returned to the bar top to get another drink, unwilling to wait for the server helping the Wardens to reach him. He squeezed between other patrons, the pub now filled with customers awaiting drinks, Nate stood in the noisy space for the bartender. Minutes dragged. The crowded area active, the bartender busy with large drink orders. Others pushed to the bar top next to him, joining the chaos to wait for their drinks. Servers were busy with attending to tables, the Wardens table requiring much of their time.

Then Nate realized the tattooed woman must have gotten up, now she stood by the Warden table, talking to the Warden prospect, Damia. Laughing, smiling, the mysterious woman was charismatic. She tucked Damia’s hair behind her ear and whispered something before walking to the bar top. Nate shifted on his feet in discomfort and refocused his gaze to the wall of drinks on the other side of the counter. The elven woman stood next to him, joining in the wait for her turn.

Perhaps it was confidence provided by the strong alcohol, Nate found himself compelled to initiate conversation. “Hello.” He turned his head to greet her. The young woman ignored him, frowning, her eyes locked straight ahead. “It looks like you ride,” he made another attempt at a greeting.

“Yep,” she gave a short response with no explanation, glancing to Nate at her side. Her eyes held on his sleeve of ink before she returned her gaze forward.

Her lingering stare motivated him. “Me too,” he smiled, stepping in and reaching an arm through the people to stake a spot at the bar. She moved a step closer to the counter next to him. Even though the young woman had to have been around a decade younger than him, Nate’s intrigue was heightened by her aloofness. Unclear of his intent, only knowing his curiosity was piqued by the peculiar elf, he asked another question. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Nope,” she responded without looking at him and showed two fingers to the bartender through the patrons sitting at the bar top.

 _She took my turn._ Nate realized she used his courtesy to get her drinks faster. He huffed in amused annoyance.

The bartender saw her and nodded. While she waited, she turned to Nate. “‘Specially not if it means you’ll keep cock blocking me. Don’t need a fucking donation from someone like you.” Her drinks delivered, she took one in each hand and stepped toward Damia.

 _Charming._ He laughed lightly at her admonishment, attracted to her brashness. _A city accent._ Her dialect suggested she didn’t live on a reservation like most Dalish. She took a step away from him and he called out, “you don’t know anything about me.” The announcement intended to help him save face and rectify any suggestions of inappropriate motives.

One drink in each hand, she turned around and closed the space between them. The noise of the bar drowned out their small tiff. Her intense stare returned, serious, and now angry. She replied in a low growl. “Know you’re the son of the criminal mother fucker, Rendon Howe.”

Nate’s hand lifted, urging her to lower her voice even more. He made a shushing sound, but she kept going. “You served in the military in the Marches for the last eight years, just got back, yeah?” Nate’s eyes widened, startled by the information about himself she had procured. “I know the Wardens keep having problems getting rid of Darkspawn.” She paused to breathe, her tangent stalling as she glared. “Someone else’s got their eyes on your MC, old man. So you and your guys should probly figure that out ‘stead of getting shite faced at the Crown and Lion.”

She swiveled on her feet and stormed off, grabbing Damia from the Warden table and pulling her to the booth with her other friends. Dumbstruck, Nate looked around to confirm no one overheard the young woman’s declarations.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient with me! I am thoroughly enjoying the development of this fic, but it is slow coming. My main work is Bond of the Grey. Thank you SO much for reading. Please let me know what you think in the comments. :) Also, I stole some banter from the game! You might notice that strewn about.


	3. Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nate seeks out help for the Wardens.

“I need more than that.” The smack of Cece’s palm landing on the table punctuated her statement. “You’re not going out there on a hunch.”

Morning light shone in through the windows of the Keep’s meeting room. A long table stretched; a two-headed griffon engraved into the center. The group of Wardens spread through the space, consulting on their plans for the day ahead. Hungover, Anders and Oghren sat at one side of the table, wearing sunglasses and remaining far more silent than in his usual state. Nate leaned against a wall, while Cece and Vel faced each other in their seats.

Vel’s scowl replied to the Queen's decision. The elven woman groaned and dropped her fist on the flat surface with ire. She stood up and pointed down. “I joined this order so I could get Seranni back! Your right hand said-”

“Nate.” Cece’s glare flashed from Vel to Nate whose palms lifted in retreat, trying to remove himself from the two women’s argument. He shook his head, refusing to say more as Cece continued talking to Vel. “Is the _right_ hand. The _vice_ president. His decisions are not final. Mine, on the other hand, are. I say we wait, and _you_ sit down.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed, holding the glare with Cece for a breath. Scoffing, Vel plopped back in her seat.

“If you want us to help you get your sister back, you will help us first. You wanted to be a Warden, this is part of the deal.” Cece stood at the head of the table, her gaze traveling to all of the group members as she spoke.

They nodded in reply and the meeting continued. Discussion covered which Darkspawn hangouts they would patrol that day, with the goal of eradicating their enemies. The room remained silent as Cece gave missions to certain members: Siggy to find information on the Darkspawn’s motive, Anders to help Vel patrol the farmlands while looking for details on Seranni, and Oghren to offer them support in the process. The three left the council room after Cece’s dismissal. Nate stayed behind, as directed.

Watching the other members leave, he reluctantly glanced to the Queen. “Cece, I-” He started to explain away the supposition he gave Vel, but she cut him short by raising her hand and rubbing her brow.

“It’s done. I don’t care, Nate,” she sighed, looking toward the window and moved to a new subject. “There shouldn’t be so many Darkspawn. And I didn’t believe it was possible but it seems they’re getting…smarter.” She paused at the last word, cringing as she said it. “We’re missing something.”

Nate’s lips met and pulled tight as he listened. He admired her wherewithal, strength in spite of dire circumstances. It reminded him of their reunion when his fleeting anger got the better of him; when he believed his father’s innocence and resigned from the military. Blood boiling at the injustice, he sought Cece out for vengeance only to be swiftly shot down by an amplitude of evidence proving his father’s guilt. He appreciated her patience with him as he adjusted to the realization. For rejoining him with his sister and giving him means to mend the massive loss of credibility to the Howe name by joining the Wardens.

He gained respect for her, building on the distant friendship they had as children. Though he had little knowledge of Darkspawn prior to joining her group, the situation she described disturbed him as much as it did her. Reports of the monster’s history described non-human, brainless thugs following simple missions of ambush and destruction, spreading their sickness and hoarding supplies.

“We need to find out who their leader is,” his train of thought took him to an immediate answer; logical steps in searching for intel, applying recon experience.

“I've been searching, Nate.” She faced him, words strained with her disappointment, flexing her hand before massaging the knuckle of her left ring finger with the digits of her right. “My connection in the capital gave me nothing.”

The unnamed connection in the capital had always intrigued Nate. He was aware of Cece’s political affiliations; born into politics, she knew many names in parliament and local government and spoke of them freely. But this nameless individual remained a mystery. Nate knew better than to pry.

“I think I know someone who can help us,” he responded after a pause, unsure if he wanted to attempt any further engagement with the young woman from the bar the night prior. The woman undoubtedly had information on the Wardens and their enemies, however.

“Who?” Cece snapped her response, letting go of her ring finger.

 _Shit._ He realized he had no name for the woman, but he knew how to find out. “Someone I met at the Crown and Lion. Let me follow my lead?”

Cece took a large inhale, filling her lungs with a slow release. She nodded, “I trust you, Nate.”

* * *

 

Rabid percussion and emphasized off-beats, the vocalist sang of political injustice and world change. Hale’s fingers tapped at her keyboard, keeping up with the punk rock blaring through her apartment. Research on the Wardens kept her occupied, intrigued by loose ends, unexplained pieces of the members’ histories. _Just gotta find the info_.

Her run in with Nate at the Crown and Lion the night prior sparked interest, making the club precede her search about the mysterious Architect. The son of the crook had come onto her. Hale’s repulsed assumptions of Nate’s character, having been raised by a pig like Rendon Howe, conflicted with her curiosity about the club. _But his father wanted him dead,_ sympathy resonated. … _And he looks all right._ Attracted feelings surfaced, she shook her head to clear them, returning to her computer. Her internet searches from an off-grid network gave details about the VP of the biker group; 30, retired lieutenant from the Marchers. But her research extended to Rendon Howe’s other victims: specifically, the Cousland family.

The governor of the northern province, Bryce, his wife, Eleanor, son and daughter, Fergus and Caoilainn; the Couslands. _A picture fucking perfect family of four. Complete with a fucking dog._ The deceased governor, retired military in the Fereldan Rebellion, and supposed friends with Rendon Howe. Reports of the fire that killed the Highever politician had flooded the news immediately after the event. Bryce and his wife were reported deceased. Cause of death: smoke inhalation, their bodies mostly disintegrated in the flames. The eldest sibling, Fergus, a soldier in Ferelden’s military reserve, had been deployed for the country’s emergency response to Darkspawn crimes. The missing daughter became the only suspect of arson.

But now Hale’s eyes followed unreleased information, police reports changed before they reached the media, payments from Rendon to the police force, ending the investigation of the event early, and minimizing unique circumstances. Evidence of a specialized accelerant, unavailable to the public, found at the start of the fire pattern. It made the Cousland girl an unlikely suspect.

Caoilainn Cousland, a young aristocrat sent to the finest private schools. She had even finished college before she disappeared at the age of 20. Flickering through pictures, Hale watched the wealthy girl grow into an adult. _Well, aren't you pretty?_ Images loaded of the tall, blonde woman in tennis gear, a designer pants suit, a ball gown. Hale scoffed; _gag me, rich tits._ But a final picture caught Hale by surprise. The Cousland girl in a leather jacket, standing with her father next to a motorcycle. _What’s this?_ Hale squinted, studying the picture. Her jaw dropped, eyes widened. She recognized the face in this altered context.

_The Queen._

A knock at the door disrupted her. Catching her breath, clearing her dumbfounded reaction and minimizing her browser, she rose to check on the visitor by peering through the peephole of her front door. A man she knew stood waiting in the doorway. The fisheye lens distorted his shape as she watched him shifting on his feet, glancing down the hall. The tattoo sleeve visible from this angle, a forest she couldn’t deny recalling from the bar a few nights prior. _Shite. Shite. Just don’t answer._ Nate knocked again. She realized the blaring music betrayed her; anyone in the hall would know she was home.

 _Mother fucker._ She took a deep breath, taking her cell phone out of her back pocket and turning down the music from the device. She balled her other fist, taking another breath, then answered the door. “How’d you find where I lived?”

“Really?” Nate scanned her appearance. Disgruntled, barefoot, wearing dirty jeans, and a black shirt with block text reading _‘tr_ ** _eat your woman right._** ' His lips tightened, holding back a grin as the small woman glared in defiance. “You took one of our prospects home, Hale.” He extended his arm, pushing open her door, and walked past a gaping Hale into her apartment. “She gave me your info when I asked for it.”

 _Fucking-A._ Hale watched him step into her living space and look around. Insistent on staying near the door, cell in hand in case she needed to call for help, her voice rose, “you got no right-”

“No,” he agreed, interrupting and turning to face her after eying the screen of her computer monitor, deducting it as her base of operations; the source of all her data gathering. “I don’t. But neither do you, digging for private information about me and my club.”

The woman leaned her weight to one foot, avoiding eye contact. “Ain’t _your_ club, arsehole,” she grumbled, crossing her arms and looking away.

Amused with her irritation, he saw through her abrasiveness. She could’ve insisted he leave, called a friend, or the police, but instead, she stood glaring, waiting for him to talk. “What do you know about whoever’s watching us?”

Her eyes narrowed, frown deepening; Hale delayed her answer, considering how much to divulge if anything. “What’s in it for me?” Chin raised, her gaze traveled down Nate’s body, sizing him up with her question. When she returned to his face, she found a cocked brow and a half-smirk staring back.

“That depends on what information you’ve got and how useful it is,” his leathery tone negotiated. Aware he was uninvited, observing her apartment’s minimal furnishing, he respected her space and remained standing.

 _Dammit._ She considered her options, debating her next move. Jaw clenched, Hale glared as seconds dragged; energetic music narrated the silence until Hale huffed. “Fine. Gimme some time to get the info together.”

He nodded and took a step to her. Nate watched her muscles seize, defensive, prepared to strike. Slowing his motions, he pried her cell phone from where it protruded from her crossed arms.  

He lit the lock screen. Brows raised, at the image of a young Hale and who he assumed to be her parents behind a number lock. He turned the phone to her to enter her password. A furrowed forehead, she glanced at her phone to Nate, who dipped his head toward the device. Her lips parted, jaw firm as it opened. Another huff, she shook her head and dragged her finger across the numbers to unlock her cell.

Nate took the phone back and entered his number in her contacts. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

* * *

 

The group rested in the common room after a day of scoping for Darkspawn hideouts. A few successful hits took down some of the henchmen, shots fired in the farmlands, no civilians harmed. Anders and Oghren played a competitive video game in one corner of the room, Siggy read a magazine about bike parts on one end of the couch, and Vel painted her nails at the other end. Nate flipped through news articles on his cell phone in an oversized chair. Continued reports of Darkspawn attacks, the local economy impacted, and projections on the influence to the rest of the country all came back to the Wardens; questioning their involvement, or lack thereof, and criticizing a few instances where civilians perished before the Wardens arrived.

“Mira, we’re trying.” Nate’s brow raised, caught off guard by the tense voice of the Queen on her phone. The rest of the members looked up from their activities to listen in to the conversation. “Yes, I’ve heard we are making the Wardens look bad… no, that is not my intent….Yes, I have a plan to do something about it.”

The Queen rolled her eyes, her head tilting back in exasperation. She stared at her phone as the voice kept talking, waiting for her to pause. “Thank you, Woolsey. I’ll make sure to show Amaranthine how useful Wardens are.” The conversation ended, and the group sat in silence until Cece explained.

“The original chapter assigned us an attorney a few weeks ago. We’re getting more complaints,” Cece rang her left ring finger with her right hand. The woman’s tough exterior cracked, showing her nervousness to the group. Mira, Mirabelle Woolsey’s goal, proving the necessity of the club as a whole, protected the club’s political amnesty in each country.

“Oh!” Anders gave a mocking gasp, lightening the bleak mood. “Business idea! Darkspawn Pest Control. If we can’t kill them, no one can!”

Chuckling, Oghren elbowed Anders in the ribs. “Maybe we’ll actually get paid!”

Cece smiled; a rare sight to the members of the club. “If you guys start that as a side business, I won’t tell Mira. Let me know how it goes.” Many in the region blamed the Darkspawn, and by proxy the Wardens, for all of its economic, trade, and agricultural hardships. The Queen addressed Nate, “did you hear back from your contact?”

“She said she needed to put together the details first.” Nate had kept his phone nearby all day in case he received a notification from the young woman. He checked again in the unlikely event she had messaged him since Cece started talking.

“If she doesn’t get back by tomorrow, find another lead. We can’t keep waiting.” Cece’s smile faded, she gave the order to Nate before leaving the room.

“What’s this about a contact?” Sigrun inquired. None in the group had been informed of Nate’s meeting with the young woman the previous day.

“Yeah, tell us all about _her_.” Unamused and bitter, Vel resumed painting her nails, pointing out the interesting detail of Nate’s contact.

After glancing up in annoyance from Vel’s snarky remark, he answered Sigrun first. His arms stretched around the back of the chair. “She might have information to help us with the Darkspawn.” Looking back to Vel, his flat tone countered her jab. “And relax, I’m nearly positive I am not her type.”

“You know,” Anders chipped in, “I’ve come to find types are mostly nominal and much less exciting than people think. Unnecessarily restricting, in my opinion.”

“Yeah,” Oghren’s gruff tone echoed agreement. “Like pants that don’t always fit right.”

“Exactly,” Anders confirmed the analogy and looked to Nate with a smirk, not missing a beat with his quip. “So take your pants off, Nate.”

The group snickered. Shaking his head, Nate cleared his throat, unsure how to respond. But a notification from his phone caught his attention. He didn’t recognize the number, but quickly made an assumption when he read the message: ‘ _I’m ready.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated. Let me know how I'm doing.


	4. Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justice is added! More pressure is placed on the MC.

The volume of the television couldn't drown out the sound of Cece yelling on the phone from her office upstairs.

" _A fucking coup_?!” Cece’s angry exclamation echoed down the stairway, startling the Wardens in the living room. Something slammed on the ground in the room above, vibrating the ceiling and the following silence suggested Cece was listening to her correspondent.

The Wardens wide eyes darted between each other and Anders whispered, “the boss is not happy about something.” He grabbed the remote to turn the TV down in hopes to overhear Cece’s argument.

“No shit,” Vel huffed with an eye roll from her seat on the couch, looking back at a bike magazine. Her legs bent to her side, occupying most of the loveseat. The lack of movement in her vision suggested she wasn’t reading the contents, also waiting for Cece to say more.

Siggy pretended not to pay attention, fumbling with conceptual drawings in a sketchbook while Oghren grinned, rising from his seat and walking to the stairs.  
  
“It’s none of our business,” Nate mumbled as he walked into the room. His creased forehead showed worry for whatever went on upstairs, but he sat down next to Vel. The elven woman tucked her feet in to give him more room not withholding a scrutinizing glare in the process.

Before anyone could answer, Cece yelled again. “ _The club hired you to mitigate shit like this, Mira_!” The livid exasperation in the club president’s tone was palpable.

“She’ll tell us at the next meeting if it’s something we should hear.” The VP’s gaze traveled to the remote in Ander’s hand, but Cece’s voice continued, raised but inaudible.

“Shut yer yapper,” Oghren muttered, peeling his ears to the sound upstairs. The group barely heard the faint sound of Cece talking in a lowered voice. After a moment of listening, Oghren translated what he made out. “Said somethin’ ‘bout Mayor Howe and Amaranthine nobility and. . .a name. . .Theirin?”

Eyes widening, Nate stayed silent, not wishing to involve himself in a conversation about his father. But Siggy piped up for him. “Amaranthine’s upper class has been complaining about us for months, and Cece killed that Howe scumbag last year. I’m sure the rich folks are missing the money Howe slipped into their pockets on a regular basis. But what the hell would the King have to do with any of this?”

None in the group had met the King despite his brief stint as a Warden. His sparkling clean reputation had not been marked by his time in the club, and he cut all ties to MC after his departure.  Duty and heritage had called him to the throne after Cece’s destruction of the Darkspawn’s last boss, bringing the enemy’s uprising and destruction of Ferelden to an end.

Dumbfounded stares passed between the group, quickly interrupted by the sound of Cece’s hurried footsteps traveling from her office. Anders rushed to turn the volume of the TV back up and Oghren hurried back to a seat in the living room. The evening news blared coverage of another tragic event somewhere in the Blackmarsh region but none listened as they nervously waited for Cece to arrive.

A distressed Cece walked behind the couch where Nate and Val sat; glazed eyes stared at the television. The club president twisted her right ring finger with the digits of her left hand. Bunched eyebrows and a deepening frown showed her worry, but none dared question the Queen.

“Rumor has it Amaranthine’s elite is hiring the Crows for a hit... on me,” Cece thought out loud, a concern for the entire group to hear. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, but she kept explaining, looking to no one in particular. “They want to bring down the club.”

“And who’s going to take care of his Darkspawn problem if we’re not around?” Turning in his seat, Anders voiced a reasonable question.

“They see us as more a threat to their income than those brainless bastards,” Siggy responded with certainty.

Cece gave a solemn nod. Her cell phone stopped vibrating for a few long seconds before resuming again.

“Ye gonna get that?” The uncomfortable mumbling came from Oghren, watching Cece with concerned skepticism.

Startled as if she hadn't realized her phone was ringing, she moved to answer it. Anders muted the television so she could hear. The Queen only listened as a voice explained something the group could not make out on the other end. Watching her pensive expression grow darker, she only hummed a confirmation before hanging up.

Looking toward the television, she tilted her head in its direction. “Darkspawn have a hostage at Blackmarsh. We need to go now.”

The group rose from their seats, grabbing their jackets and hurrying toward the garage. Weapons carried in holsters, each secured extra magazines in their pockets before leaving.

“What if it’s my sister?” The inkling of hope in Vel’s tone was unanswered by the group. The deserted Blackmarsh, occupied only by spectres and blighted wolves, made no haven for humans or elves. Darkspawn using the unpleasant grounds as a meeting place for their club’s illegal enterprises did not seem promising.

The garage door opened, each member climbing onto their bike. Ignitions turned and buttons pressed to start their vehicles, and in succession beginning with Cece and followed by Nate, they rushed from the Keep. A full moon illuminated the sky, and the empty roads welcomed the riders. Tanks filled, growling engines revved to higher RPMs, each rider keeping in time, a few short seconds between each person. A longer ride than to the city, they raced east along the coast of the Amaranthine gulf.

For over an hour uncomfortable limbs tensed and released as the ride waned on the Wardens. Shoulders flexed, head stayed bowed to the wind rushing past them. Soon the scenery changed; ominous trees sprouted along the hilly coastland. Barren branches reached toward the moonlight, and deserted buildings left glimpses of the town that had once existed at Blackmarsh. The Wardens passed a news van, well outside the town, reporting updates of the Darkspawn activity. Riding past the van, yelling voices reverberated through the darkness from the town's interior and smoke climbed from a bonfire ahead.  

As Cece expected, there were no lights or sirens, no law enforcement near this active crime scene. Police avoided Darkspawn at all costs, knowing from experience the interactions only resulted in death or blighted officers. They called the Wardens to take care of these disturbances. It worked well; law enforcement willingly turned a blind eye, allowing the Wardens to take care of the villains by whatever means necessary.

Approaching a building structure, Cece’s right hand let off the throttle; she signalled for three to go around the back. At a fork in the road, Nate, Anders and Vel diverted, leaving the staggered formation to follow a separate path to the back side of the unit. The sounds of their bikes faded as they disappeared.

Darkspawn bikes parked along the walls of the enclosure, an old estate opening to a courtyard where the rival gang gathered around the bonfire. Cece signalled for the remaining group to slow down, spreading around the open gates of the entrance, blocking the Darkspawn in their self created presumptive trap. The vile, mindless drones stopped their fireside festivities, snarling at the Wardens and moving to grab their weapons.

A woman stood at their center. Assuming her the hostage, Cece squinted, overcoming the vibration of her running engine to observe. Untied, she moved freely among the Darkspawn dressed in outdated clothing, a high-necked dress with lace frills. In her hand, Cece identified a staff. _I haven’t seen a mage use a staff since I was a kid._ The thought barely registered before a shot was fired from the Darkspawn toward them. It missed, hitting the ground near their bikes.

“Move!” Cece yelled over the roaring engines to Siggy and Oghren, her right hand gesturing for them to move to the right side of the courtyard wall. The Queen took a different path, quickly parking her bike on the left of the entrance. Pulling a gun from the back of her jeans, she sidled up to the wall and aimed at a thug nearing the courtyard entrance. The trigger pulled and she brought down the foe with one shot. Siggy and Oghren followed suit, parking their vehicles and nearing the wall to shoot enemies coming from the other direction.

A bolt of flames shot from the courtyard, charring the road a few steps from Cece. Her eyes widened, glancing to her counterparts on the other side of the entryway to see if they saw the source. Both shrugged, and continued their alternating shots into the courtyard.

Then Cece felt it. The coldness of magic sucking the energy out of this realm, connecting it with another. The Fade. _That woman’s no hostage._ Demons joined the Darkspawn, sliding from the unseen portals somewhere inside the courtyard and toward the Wardens.

“There’s too many of them!” Siggy yelled over gunfire. Darkspawn shots ricocheted off the corners of the wall near them. The demons required more bullets to take down, expending their ammo.

 _Come on, Nate._ Cece pleaded for her second in command to pull through.

***  
The old building rotted, floorboards creaked and some gave way to the slightest pressure.  Human bodies in different stages of decay strewn about the floor.

The Wardens covered their mouths to keep from breathing in the stench. Val and Anders illuminated the path with their free hands; the group took cautious steps through the old house, not stopping to explore as they heard gunfire from outside. The activity rattled the windows, flashing lights and yells reverberated into the house.

“We need to hurry,” Nate whispered, wary of the battle occurring.

“We’re hurrying, Nate.” Tiptoeing over a hole in the floor, Val gave an annoyed huff, referring to the conditions of the mission. “If we go any faster, we’ll kill ourselves trying to get there.”

A purple light glowed from outside, joined by eerie sounds from the source. It took no need to see the catalyst to know evil magic occurred.

“Okay,” Anders said, gesturing the window. “Now I _know_ that’s Templar wheelhouse. I love how they’re nowhere to be found when there’s an unregistered mage causing legitimate problems.”

“Bitch about that later.” Nearing the front door, Nate grumbled to Anders, irritated by the mages needless griping. “For now we need to get outside and help Cece.”

Before they could organize their strategy, a foreign voice spoke. “And kill that wench, the Baroness.”

The three Wardens faced each other with confusion, unsure of the speaker. Their baffled looks stopped when a tall man walked to them from the shadows of the house from which the Wardens just came. At least it looked like a man. Discerning his gaunt features, sallow flesh barely clung to his cheekbones, dark circles surrounded his eyes; even the skin on his arm drooped from the bones.

Vel scowled, but remained quiet, and Anders watched with fascination. Nate stepped forward, noticing the patches on the man’s vest as Warden.

“You’re from the Orlesian chapter?” Nate inquired, not stepping forward to shake the man’s hand. “Kristoff?” Having heard the name from Varel, Nate assumed the missing Sergeant-at-Arms from the Orlesian Wardens MC. He had visited Ferelden not long after Cece’s destruction of the Darkspawn’s previous leader to bring news back to the fellow chapter.

“No,” the man looked down, assessing his attire. “You can call me Justice. This body is Kristoff. He's dead.”

“No!” Anders gave a mocking gasp. The body's status as undead needed no explanation.

“I’d explain why I’m using his body if I knew how I got here.” The body continued, looking down at his frame.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Anders interjected, extending his hand from around Nate and pointed at the being. “Are you going to kill us?”

“Do I have a reason to?” The man questioned, the skeptical expression defined despite his undead features.

“None whatsoever. Name’s Anders.” He flashed a wide grin. “You’re welcome to join us in killing these assholes if you can still shoot a gun.”

“Wait,” Nate said, extending his hand to interrupt the communication between Anders and Justice. “That’s a decision for Cece to make.”

“We don’t have time to wait.” Vel ignored Nate’s caution and walked around him to the door. She looked back at the group with irritation, a hand on her hip. “She’ll decide later if she doesn't like it.”

Another purple light shined through the dirty windows. Nate realized he needed to make a decision and quickly. The expectant group stared at him and he weighed the options, electing to allow Justice to join.  Nate warily gave the new ally a spare weapon and a plan developed quickly.

They opened the door,  the Darkspawn’s attention fixated on Cece, Oghren and Siggy who tactfully rounded the corners of the walled entrance to shoot with precision into the horde. Oghren’s shouting became audible. No Wardens looked injured and Darkspawn and demons lay on the ground. The Baroness, as Justice had named her stood tall sending magic to summon more enemies from the Fade. Unlike the Darkspawn, they didn’t rely on weapons. The ominous creatures slid on the ground, sweeping large arms toward their targets.

Signalling for the new group to take fire, Nate aimed. The sneak attack focused on the Baroness. Isolated shots joined Anders’ and Vel’s magic, slowing her pace and overcoming her power. Rounds of bullets reached her, piercing flesh that didn't bleed. But she fell to the ground and the group thought her dead until the body of the woman disintegrated, and from it a larger demon erupted. Large and muscular, covered in thorns and surrounded in a purple aura. The Pride Demon was unlike any Darkspawn drone the Wardens had faced.

Darkspawn picked off by pointed shots from Siggy, Oghren focused his attention on the remaining lesser demons. The group surrounded the demonic form of the Baroness. Cece and Nate met in the middle, hiding behind debris opposite the unkempt courtyard of Vel and Anders. Oghren and Siggy did the same between them. But their new counterpart, the spirit assuming the body of the dead Warden, came full force toward the Pride Demon. Her blows knocked him down and he got back up determined to destroy her.

Cece glanced at Nate with wide eyes, perplexed at the new ally’s fighting style. “Who the hell is that?”

The demon growled at a blow from the undead man’s weapon.

Nodding toward the action, Nate answered, “Justice.”

“Come on, Nate.” Rolling her eyes, Cece shoved him and shook her head to insist a serious answer.

After restating the name and briefly explaining the interaction in the house, the pair returned to shooting the demon from hiding spot. Cece hollered to Anders to heal Justice, unsure of the effect of healing spells would have on the dead Warden body Justice inhabited. The gunfire continued and the enemy’s attacks increased in intensity until their combined efforts made the beast topple over to the Wardens’ victory.

The mages gave final healing spells to those in need and the members returned to their motorcycles. Impressed with his fortitude and commitment to the fight, Cece extended an invitation for Justice to join them. He reclaimed Kristoff’s cruiser and the joined the group back to Vigil’s Keep. Rushing adrenaline crashed, replaced by a desperate need for sleep.

***

Prospects made breakfast as the Wardens came downstairs late the next morning. Tired bodies grabbed cups of coffee from the large pot brewing before members collected around the high countertop.

Sleepy grunts to one another made for wordless greetings until the Queen arrived. Her hair braided tighter than usual, awake as ever despite the exhausting day prior. Uncommon for the leader to join them, Caoilainn addressed her fellow Wardens with a review of the last night’s mission. Dumbfounded, they watched her.

“The Templars better get off our case after last night,” she sighed, cutting in front of Anders at the coffee pot. He huffed but knew better than to object. As the aromatic beverage poured into her mug, steam rising, she vented, “That should have been their job. I bet they made up the hostage situation just to get us out there.” She drank the coffee black, an intense glint in her eyes as her thoughts continued. Gazing out the window, she watched Justice care for Kristoff’s bike.

Eyes shifted between the group, uncertain how to respond to her heavy presence. Siggy and Oghren remained silent, nodding as they ate. Vel ignored her; none broached the subject of Vel’s disappointment not finding her sister the previous night.

Braving a reply, Anders chuckled, “Templars are nothing if not… humble, right?” Mirroring Cece’s motions at the coffee pot, Anders added cream and sugar before drinking.

Wide eyes shadowed by a creased brow gazed at the floor ahead. Cece hummed distracted acknowledgment of Anders’ statement, but continued listing worries. “The Darkspawn cooperated with that Pride Demon, even in her human form. It doesn’t make sense. They don’t have a club leader now. I’ve never seen them act like that independently.” Her blank stare maintained.

Stuffing most of a piece of toast into his mouth Oghren successfully avoided any obligation of talking. Siggy’s chewing slowed, and she made an awkward swallow, clearing her throat before darting her eyes to Anders. Questioning looks pondered the same inquiry. _Where is Nate?_

The club vice president had a knack none of them possessed for taking the leader’s fears in stride. He had yet to arrive downstairs.

“They’ve been acting strange for a while.” Siggy made a cautious assessment, connecting information they already knew about the recent Darkspawn activity.

“But this isn’t just strange, it’s sentient.” Mumbling, Cece’s gaze shifted to Siggy as she sipped her coffee.

Before anyone else could add to the conversation, Nate came downstairs. Clean jeans and a button-up plaid shirt under a leather jacket opposed his usual oil stained attire.

“You look nice.” Vel’s dead stare scanned Nate and gave a compliment. “Going on a date?”

“No,” he scoffed, shaking his head with exaggeration and grabbing a piece of toast. “I have a meeting.”

Standing next to Oghren, Anders smirked and elbowed his comrade. He spoke loud enough for the whole group to hear, waggling his eyebrows. “If it’s not a date, he at least wants to get laid.” Oghren chuckled loudly in response.

A single eye-roll and Nate retorted, “Maybe if some of you bathed more than once a week, you’d get out more.”

Setting her mug down, Cece’s hands rose to her hips. “Please tell me you’re not worrying about a date when we need to make progress on the Darkspawn.”

“I said it was a meeting.” Nate snapped at all of them and drank from Cece’s coffee mug. “I’m getting intel from that hacker at the bar. The one who took Damia home, by the way.”

The prospect had finished her food and sat silently at the table, reading the manual on the bike she would be working on that day. She gave a low glance up to the group, her cheeks turning red.

“You better hurry up then,” Vel huffed, rising from her chair and taking her plate to the sink. “Since you’re all dressed up in the name of _progress._ ”

Chuckling again, Oghren chipped in. "I bet that hacker chick’s got all kinds of intel, Nate. Make sure you get it from her nice and slow."

Another huff from Vel and the elven woman departed from the kitchen. Nate’s apologetic eyes followed her on the way out, and he prepared to scold the dwarf, but Anders spoke first.

“Too far,” Anders sighed. “Buddy, that right there is why you don’t get any.” He wrinkled his nose. “And not bathing.”

“Hey, I shower every sodding day like the rest of you!” The argument didn’t hold to the specks of dirt on Oghren’s hands as he extended them to prove his point.  
  
“Try soap.” Nate muttered and walked to Cece. Assuring of the intent of this meeting, he put his fist to his chest. “It’s not a date. Wardens’ honor.”

Cece only nodded and Nate turned to leave. Plans to meet the young woman at a diner in Amaranthine had been made by text the day prior.

On his way out of the kitchen, Siggy called to Nate’s back. "Be careful. If it's who I'm thinking of, I don't trust her."

Sighing, Nate brushed off the warning and left the Keep. He rolled his bike from the garage and started it up, letting the engine warm a few seconds before leaving. _Who can we trust these days?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long. I have the next one in the works so it won't take as long as the last one. Thanks for reading! I'd also like to show thanks to [ eravalefantasy ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravalefantasy) for helping me with dialogue ideas! Read her work!


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